


bleed out for you, for you

by caffeine101



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bleeding Out, Gen, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, I kept from saying fuck in one ff but now i'm back on my dirty mouthed bullshit so, John Watson Whump, John Whump, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Whumptober, bthb: bleeding out, if all goes well this should be updated tomorrow, ignore that if you want to ig, johnlock not outright stated but implied, rated T for bad words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 02:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeine101/pseuds/caffeine101
Summary: Message: John Watsonsent: 18:34 [read ✓]Lestrade has promised a Level 8 triple homicide. Meet at NSY. -SHsent: 18:35 [✓]Your shift should have ended 35 minutes ago. -SHsent: 18:53 [unread]I will replace the toaster, if the fingers have upset you that much. -SHsent: 18:55 [unread]John? -SH///John disappears for half an hour, which is all it takes for him to be kidnapped and stabbed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> missed a day so my dumb ass decided to post 1.5 today and tomorrow. this is the .5 (a two parter except both chapters are really short so technically it's just as long as any oneshot the only upside is I have more time to procrastinate). 
> 
> all mistakes are on me & my lack of research into emergency service operators :)

**Message: John Watson**

sent: 18:34 [read ✓]  
Lestrade has promised a Level 8 triple homicide. Meet at NSY. -SH

sent: 18:35 [✓]  
Your shift should have ended 35 minutes ago. -SH

sent: 18:35 [✓]  
If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH

sent: 18: 48 [unread]  
The triple homicide was of a husband, wife, and her lover. Not a Level 8, but a Level 6. -SH

sent: 18:53 [unread]  
I will replace the toaster, if the fingers have upset you that much. -SH

sent: 18:53 [unread]  
I will also return your jumper, relatively unscathed. -SH

sent: 18:53 [unread]  
John. -SH

sent: 18:54 [unread]  
It is imperative you respond at once, regardless of your feelings towards me currently, to confirm your safety. -SH

sent: 18:55 [unread]  
John? -SH

**Message: DI Lestrade**

sent: 18:55 [✓]  
John has not responded to any of my text messages. I will be over to go through surveillance cameras shortly. -SH

sent: 18:55 [✓]  
I will require the full cooperation of every officer. -SH

received: 18:56 [✓]  
Is he missing or just not responding? 

received: 18:56 [✓]  
Christ Sherlock I've already left

sent: 18:56 [✓]  
John always responds. It does not matter if he is upset with me. -SH

sent: 18:56 [✓]  
He has not expressed anger or upset towards me recently either. -SH

sent: 18:59 [✓]  
I am inside. Your help is not required. -SH

received: 18:59 [✓]  
Do I even want to know how you got in?

received: 19:00 [✓]  
Wait there I’m coming

sent: 19:01 [✓]  
Let your officers know to not be so careless with their IDs. -SH

sent: 19:01 [✓]  
Keep up, I hate repeating myself: I have told you your help is not necessary. -SH

received: 19:01 [✓]  
Fuck that I’m coming

received: 19:01 [✓]  
If we need to find John I’ll turn on the sirens

sent: 19:02 [✓]  
Hurry up. -SH

**Message: Fat Arsehole**

received: 19:00 [✓]  
Looks like you’ll be needing my help, again, little brother. -MH

sent: 19:02 [✓]  
No, I will not. I have NSY’s authority. Piss off. -SH

sent: 19:02 [✓]  
Do not call me little brother. It is condescending. -SH

received: 19:03 [✓]  
My team has already found John Watson and will save you time. -MH

sent: 19:03 [✓]  
Where is he? -SH

received: 19:03 [✓]  
He was picked up outside the clinic by a taxi, then taken to a warehouse on Whitechapel and was dumped on Kent and Albany moments ago. -MH

received: 19:05 [unread]  
Sherlock, do not rush into this. -MH 

**Message: DI Lestrade**

sent: 19:03 [✓]  
Hurry. Up. -SH

\---

transcript: 19/10/2012, 19:01-19:06  
operator: Michelle Irving  
phone number: xxx-xxx-xxxx

_Uh-hello? I need an ambulance- not me, this guy on the ground next to me, bleeding something awful, it looks like it’s coming from his stomach? Okay- I’m already doing that, I’m pushing down on it. With my scarf. Yeah. I’m on the corner of Kent and Albany, right between this pawn shop and bar. I think he’s awake but delirious, keeps murmuring things. Something about a ‘shlock’? No, I just saw a cabbie dump him here- or at least he came out of a cab, just dumped him here and ran back. No, I didn’t get the license- okay, the police are here-_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back to your Regular Prose Content, aka, Sherlock finds John (not dead, not yet).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can I boast a completed multi-chapter fic if it was only 2 chapters long? 
> 
> also hopefully this interpretation of Sherlock's thought process isn't too off.

Sherlock was acutely aware of the chill stinging at his cheeks as he burst out of the police car, not bothering to close the door or wait for the DI as scanned the area, located John (and the person lying next to him: not the person who took him, is using his scarf to stem the wound, middle-class businessman trying to get home to his heavily pregnant wife, called the police immediately and just hung up) and ran over to him, pushing the startled man, who had just opened his mouth to no doubt asks some inane question, to the side. 

“John,” he said to John’s prone figure laying on the ground (his knees, as close as possible to John without touching him, suddenly were wet as he kneeled in a pool of John’s blood, blood that should have been inside his body but- (unimportant, cease train of thought)). “John!” 

He shifted his eyes from John’s face (twisted up, eyes closed, and mouth moving soundlessly: delirious) to stare at his stomach, the source of all the crimson (wound stemming from: 6 centimeters above right hip, stab wound from a right hand, stabber about 1.8 meters) and ripped his own scarf off his neck and placed it next to the one already there (the man’s further proving his middle-class status. He was currently speaking to Lestrade, pointing at John and at Sherlock), and pushed down. “Come on John, stay with me.”

John, finally, made a sound, but instead of any words, it was just a brief cry of pain as Sherlock pressed even harder on the wound (Sherlock felt the strange urge to apologize, but John wouldn’t hear it, or understand it, so why-?)

“Sherlock, the ambulance!” Lestrade called from behind him, and Sherlock resisted the urge to snap back that, yes, he could _hear_ the sirens (taking in consideration speed and distance it would arrive in about 24 seconds), thank you very much. It would have been a waste of energy, energy that he needed to spend on John to make sure he _didn’t bleed out_ (John couldn’t die, not when Sherlock needed him, if only to have someone to speak to during crime scenes instead of a skull. There was an odd tightness in his chest and an odd buzz in the back of his mind Sherlock identified as fear and worry but were of secondary importance when it came to John, bleeding out in front of him and staining Sherlock’s hands red even through the scarves.) 

Exactly 23 seconds later (Sherlock hated to be wrong, but every second counted when it contributed to John Watson’s life) the ambulance pulled up and the men and women inside burst out, only one stopping to speak to Lestrade while the rest immediately ran to John, as they should. 

Sherlock tried to make himself move back, but strangely enough, his body, which he was usually in complete and total control of, refused to cooperate. Instead of letting go of the scarves and backing away enough to let the paramedics haul John onto a stretcher, he stayed kneeling over John, hands still pressing desperately into his stomach, eyes locked onto his eyelids, where Sherlock could see his eyes moving wildly (and his mouth, moving silently and saying nothing, but Sherlock could tell that the word John was mouthing over and over was _his name_, and why would John be calling out for him in his pain-?)

“We’re going to need you to move,” one of the women hovering over him said as the rest of the paramedics spread out around John, one (wedding ring not on his finger but a clear line where it used to be. It was on a chain around his neck: widower. With two cats, and likely a fish) even gently easing Sherlock’s fingers off of John so the rest could haul him away. 

Sherlock stiffly rose to his feet once it was clear he could either move or be moved (or watch John as he was carted away and be helpless and useless and all the things Sherlock Holmes was _not_) and stared at the spot John had been laying, a sizeable pool of blood staining the streets below (approximately 2 liters of blood lost - chance that he would survive, but also chance that he might not make it, and that thought caused a funny burning behind his eyes that didn’t make sense, because people died all the time, why was John so different?), metallic smell in the air. 

Sherlock looked down at his hands. Crimson, just like John had been covered in. Crimson that had come from John. 

Sherlock didn’t know how long he stood, staring at his hands, but the angle of the light had shifted when someone spoke, taking Sherlock’s attention away from the now-dried blood on his hands. “Sherlock,” and it was Lestrade again, who was no longer with the man (who had seemingly left, now that the police had arrived, without his scarf, which he would check in on John for, although Sherlock couldn’t be sure whether or not it was really for John or whether it was just for the scarf without having spoken to the man). 

Sherlock turned his gaze on him, and Lestrade stuttered for a moment, pausing in what he was going to say, before letting out a heavy sigh.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, after a moment of silence (he didn’t like all the new, odd feelings that came with John being hurt and Sherlock being useless and John about to die when John needed to live or else Sherlock would have to go back to the way things were and Sherlock didn’t _want_ to go back to the way things were-)

“Get in the car. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

The biggest help Lestrade had been all day, Sherlock thought, taking a couple seconds to convince his feet to move (his pants let was still stained with the same awful, awful color Sherlock’s hands were stained with. It would give him a good excuse to burn the pants rather than admit that he never wanted another reminder of this awful day again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certified Unsatisfying Ending Bitch(tm): it me :)
> 
> lemme know if anyone is interested in a third chapter at the hospital, with actual dialogue from john lmao.
> 
> thanks for the 100 kudos?? i thought this was one of my worse-written (esp sherlock) fics so this was a surprise lmao. consider checking out some of my other works & have a great rest of the day! :D

**Author's Note:**

> if this format wasn't your cup of tea the next chapter is back to my Regular Prose Content. that being said, I did have a lot of fun with this. 
> 
> not sure how realistic the emergency number call was but I'd imagine the first thing you'd do when finding some person bleeding out on the ground is call the police. I've never had to call the police for anything as bloody as that so.


End file.
